


Saving Grace

by fiveainley_ohmy



Series: Angel Of The Battlefield [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: How it all began, M/M, Major Character Undeath, VERY Destiel-ish, angel!Sherlock, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8472856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy





	

Pain. Blistering heat. Constant torture. Unending torment.  _Hell._  It was all he could remember.

John jerked awake in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. He hadn't breathed in months.

Shot. He remembered being shot.

"Aaah!" John cried instinctively, clasping a hand to his heart, right where the bullet had pierced him.

His heart was beating.

"I'm alive," the soldier whispered, trembling.

"Hello, John Watson."

John jumped, his newly thumping heart nearly breaking out of his chest in fright.

There was a man towering over him.

John was sitting on the ground, in a sandy abyss. There was a city half a mile in the distance - Kandahar, by the look of it. Afghanistan. Still in bloody Afghanistan. Well, it wasn't Hell (although it was close).

John looked up in fear at the figure above him...and his breath was taken away.

The man was tall, approximately six foot, with a halo of playfully mussed chocolate curls atop his head. His skin was the color of a winter rose, his cheeks preternaturally bony. His lips were full and lush, his neck a long, slender branch of alabaster - John thought he could spy two small brown moles disappearing into the man's blue knit scarf wound snugly around his throat. His long, lean body was sheathed in layer upon layer, what looked like a bespoke black suit and a white dress shirt with the buttons clinging to the fabric for dear life, threatening to pop open at the slightest movement, all hidden under a heavy, long, navy blue, wool overcoat.

But what was most impressive were his eyes, cool, analytical, encapsulating. They seemed to glow, even in the dimming evening light. They were very pale, sometimes pearl grey, other times blue as water.

John realized he was staring, then blushed profusely. He scrabbled to his feet, feeling pins and needles in his legs. "What happened? I was...I died. I thought I died. I was in Hell..."

"You were," agreed the beautiful creature. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

John gripped for the knife he carried in his back pocket in what he hoped was a subtle manner. "Who are you?" he demanded to know.

The creature's lovely mouth tugged into a tiny smirk and said, "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

John swallowed, licking his lips, for they'd gone very dry all of a sudden. "Yeah well..." He clenched his knife tighter. "Thanks for that."

John swung for the jugular, but the creature blocked him with a calm grip to his wrist, freezing his arm in midair. He (it?) was _strong_ , superhumanly so, and John dropped his knife in surprise.

The creature merely sighed, his eyes flicking upward momentarily in mild exasperation. "Dull," he said, releasing John's arm.

John gulped hard. "Who are you?" he asked.

The creature genuinely smiled - and John's knees nearly buckled for his smile was _stunning_. "My name is Sherlock," said he. "I'm an angel of the Lord."

There was a sudden flash of lightning, a heat storm, and John's eyes widened as for just an instant, the outline of pearl grey wings appeared behind Sherlock, then promptly faded away.

Sherlock nodded at him knowingly.

John was taken aback. Well no wonder this man was so strong, and gorgeous to boot. But John didn't believe in such stuff. "And why would an angel," he said, trying desperately to keep the quaver out of his voice, "rescue _me_ from Hell?"

Sherlock's voice was calm and steady. "Because God commanded it."

John felt very shaky. He could feel his legs were giving way.

"Oh, I do apologize," said Sherlock, helping him to sit back down. "You've been through an ordeal. Here - I've read that this is vital to human beings." He handed John an ordinary bottle of water from the deep pockets of his coat.

John looked at him briefly in incredulity, then took it from him. Three months underground, Goddamn right he was parched. He'd drink battery acid as long as it was wet. He twisted the cap open and chugged the bottle's contents like he'd never consumed a drop of moisture before. God, sweet, cool bliss. The bottle was emptied in less than ten seconds.

"Better?" Sherlock's voice seemed soft, almost concerned.

John wiped his lip, breathing hard. "Yeah...look. What gives? Why the hell would God give a damn about one little pathetic soldier? We die left and right and no Belstaff-wearing angels come digging us back up. So why me?"

"Because you have work to do, John," Sherlock replied. "I understand, you have questions. I don't have all the answers. But...if you'll allow me..."

He extended his hand.

"We can find them together."

John looked at the proffered hand, then the angel. After a second's hesitation, John took it.

The two men disappeared in the blink of an eye.


End file.
